Ashes
by Intricacy
Summary: Sometimes things fall apart even more when you try to fix them. A twist on Cinderella.


**Ashes** _C h a p t e r O n e_

A take on Cinderella. The writing style's a different experiment for me, and the story will be a chronological mess. Bear with me, though, and please leave any suggestions on improvement in a review.

The characterization needs improvement, since right now everyone acts like a little spoiled kid. Hopefully I can fix it in the next few chapters. Enjoy!

* * *

The carriage takes me past the town I used to live in, and I gently push the curtain aside slightly to see the almost forgotten sight that still stirs some familiar notion in the back of my heart and mind roll by. The stand where the farmer's wife sells their latest harvest, the broken down store that the glassblower still keeps, the neighboring store where the blacksmith –

My breath hitches in my throat. Unconsciously, my hand pushes the curtain a little more than what is proper. The door swings open and a dark haired man black with soot steps out, a hammer in one hand. My heart freezes in place as I see the familiar structure of his cheekbones, the way his nose angles, his green eyes that used to console me. Immediately, I withdraw, but the curtain covering the window flutters. It's the proof that I was watching him only a moment ago.

"Are you all right?" I turn to see my husband sitting beside me, taking my hand into his. His blue eyes that used to captivate me are slightly concerned, but over what? My health, or the effect of a sick queen on a country?

Weakly, I smile back. "I'm fine," I promise, my voice quiet. It isn't a lie. I am fine.

So why is my heart still quivering?

--

There was a diary I used to write in, when I first was married. He gave it to me, told me to write in it so I could tell him the stories of life as a princess. I take it out from the bottom of my chest, flipping open the red cover. It's a simple book, painfully simple compared to the ornate lifestyle it is kept in, but it must have cost a fortune for him.

The passages I wrote had very little to do with the prince I married, and when I spoke of him, it was of his intriguing aura and of his handsome features. It is five years since then, and life falls into a pattern. My husband has lost his captivating air, though he is not any less handsome. Fine blond hair that is soft to touch, blue eyes that can stop a woman's heart, a smile that I hardly see anymore. In fact, I don't think there was ever a time when his smiles weren't rare.

As the date passes forward in the diary, the entries grow shorter and shorter. They ended completely not even a year after my marriage date.

--

Night comes and I still can't forget the way he looks, how different he is from five years ago. He is broader, stronger, the master of his craft and no longer an apprentice now. His reappearance brings back an echo into my hollow chest in dull waves of longing and regret. Sorrow takes ahold of me. Is this what it is like to miss something?

--

No one knows of my life before the ball that presented me to the prince. It's a story that I never told. There was never exactly a reason that I didn't share it. I simply didn't, and it fits that way. I was asked a few times of my past, but my answers were always vague.

Was I as intriguing to the prince as he was to me, back before he was crowned king?

--

I ride out to the same town the next day. I told the king that I was out looking for cloth, to see the varieties offered outside of the palace's sources. He questioned why I simply didn't send out a servant to bring back materials, and I lied in response. He doesn't know where I am going, or that I am going alone.

I take the carriage and order him to take me on the same path as the day before. As we pass by the town again, I order him to stop and he helps me climb down to the streets. People stare at me, and it takes me a while before I realize that my everyday gown is adorned with more jewels than they have ever seen in their lifetimes. "Stay and watch the carriage," I command him. "I'll be looking through the shops, and I might be gone for long."

He knows not to ask questions, and he simply nods and remains silent. I walk down to the blacksmith's store, but my hand hesitates as it reaches for the door. Should I? Has he forgotten me already? It's been five years. Five years of no communication whatsoever. What would he say? What should _I_ say?

My heart beats furiously fast in anticipation and anxiety as I push open the door. Hurriedly, I scan the room for him, but the only person here is a young boy, perhaps twelve or so. He turns to look at me, his expression startled. "You, boy." I motion for him, and he scrambles over, tripping on his feet to greet me.

"Yes, ma'am?" he says, wiping his filthy hands on his trousers. There's a slurred accent to his words that he's trying to repress. "How can I help you?"

I frown for a moment. "What's your name?"

"Henry, ma'am," he says, looking down. His voice betrays his confusion.

"Henry, is your master here?" My fingers tap on my parasol as I wait for his answer.

The boy is painfully honest. His eyes do not dart anywhere, and his voice does not quiver in uncertainty. "He left a mo' ago to go see a lady."

My chest constricts slightly at his statement. He's seeing somebody, and I don't know about it. He's been my only friend, and it hurts to know that he is courting a woman I don't know about.

"I'll be waiting for him here." It's hard to speak, and my voice is strained. "Ensure that he doesn't take too long." Henry hastily nods and dashes out of the store, leaving you alone. Was it wrong to tell Henry to hurry up? Was that too inconsiderate of me? He deserves it, regardless, for not informing me of his relationship.

But will he be pleased to see me after that? Perhaps he will hate me forever. Perhaps he has forgotten all about me.

The door swings open with a soft moan and Henry stumbles in, slightly out of breath. I expect him to inform me that he cannot rush things, or something to that effect. However, the door instead swings open one more time, and _he_ steps forward. He turns and sees me, his green eyes catching my plain blue ones. For that one moment, the world seems to have stopped, the air pushed out of my lungs. He's expressionless, though, as if my presence does nothing to him. Has he truly forgotten me?

He couldn't have. He can't. He has to remember.

"Ivan – " Words fail me and I don't know where to start. "You – you haven't _forgotten_ me, have you?"

"Eirian," he says. Relief floods through me. He _hasn't_ forgotten me, but he is still so… immobile. With a closer look, the sparkle that used to light his eyes is gone. He's passive and is nothing similar to the boy I had danced with at night by the lake on Fridays. Even though he's remembered me as a person, he's forgotten me as a friend.

The very idea of it hurts and chills me. I don't ask anything; I don't want to hear it spoken.

"How is your Prince Charming?" His voice is a stranger's. I don't know it. There is no laughter in it.

"Aiden is fine," I respond. Formalities were not something I had anticipated. I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts me.

"Only fine?" he questions. He picks up his hammer and begins to work. "Nothing more?"

I frown. What does he want? "He's brilliant." Ivan falters slightly in his work. "And I am brilliant as well. Thank you for asking."

His eyebrows knit together and the next strike seems particularly loud to me. "How nice to know. Well, why are you here?"

His voice is so curt, so sharp that it stings. "Why – why am I here?" I repeat, stuttering slightly. He isn't pleased to see me. He hates me. The words repeat in my mind, each time bringing a sharper blow to my knotted stomach.

"Five years we've gone without communication," he explains without glancing at me, hammering diligently. "There must be some special circumstance that persuaded you to visit. Is there an heir finally on the way?"

I blush at his bold statement. How dare he speak like that to me? He's been nothing but impolite the whole time I was here. "You're not the person I remember."

"You're the same person _I_ remember."

Infuriated, I storm to him. He looks over at me and catches my hand as it flies toward him. Something flickers in those green eyes, but it disappeared as soon as it came. "I hope the unfortunate woman you've chosen to fall in love with denies you in the most publicly humiliating way possible." I wrench my wrist out of his grasp and I turn around, leaving. "I want a pair of glass slippers delivered to the castle by next week," I demand as I walk out the door.

I hear him call back before the door closes shut. "The glassblower is next door!"

I kick the wooden door before I climb into the carriage, ordering the coachman to take me home. I've never been so unladylike since I became queen.

Inside me, I am so utterly lost, so confused. How could this have happened? The fire I had felt moments earlier begins to turn into pain, and I choke back a sob just as I hear the door to the blacksmith's open and the carriage rides away.

--

He used to be my friend, my only friend, my closest friend. No one knew about him in my household. I think I was a snotty brat before I met him, the reason my stepmother had degraded me to a common maid. She wanted me to learn humility, to be modest. After my own mother had died, my father had spoiled me in his despair, in his desperate attempt to keep the one connection he had left with the woman who had passed away.

My stepmother's attempts were useless. Forcing me to become a lowly servant only added a spiteful grudge into my personality. Really, it was he who changed me. It annoyed me at first, but he was a persistent boy.

I think I hate him.

* * *

I know it must have been really confusing this chapter, but some history will be explained in the next chapter. I'm not all that pleased with it, actually.

Review! Concrit is adored.


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